


Kindness

by lilieeees



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Ignores Season 3, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilieeees/pseuds/lilieeees
Summary: He felt warm hands grip his face carefully.  They weren’t like his mother’s: these hands were strong, calloused. He tried to open his eyes again, spotting something black. It was hair, brown-reddish hair. He closed his eyes again, the dull throbbing of his head lulling him back under. Max, his sister, she had red hair. The voice was shaking, it sounded nervous, hopeful but nervous. Like Susan’s, his stepmother.He opened his eyes again and he found another pair peering back. Deep brown eyes were staring straight at him. He reeled back, head throbbing at the movement. The warm hands grabbed him again, by the shoulders this time, trying to hold him still. Brown eyes, just like his father. Oh God, his father.





	Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii so, I was challenged to write an angsty work and here we are. I am so so sorry, I love these boys

He felt warm hands grip his face carefully.They weren’t like his mother’s: these hands were strong, calloused. Oh God, his mother; he hadn’t felt her hands in years. They were always so soft, so warm and so impossibly kind. They would hold his own hand, her thumb stroking small circles against his wrist.They would be between his hair, scratching softly at his head until he fell asleep. They would be on his back, rubbing big circles until his breath evened out. Her hands always came with smiles, and he used to think that her smiles were big enough to light up the darkest room, her rosy lips always stretching more than he thought possible, revealing teeth whiter than the clouds. Back then, he always thought that those smiles were only reserved for him. 

  


Mary, his mother. She had deep sea-blue eyes, just like him, and golden locks, just like him. She loved to make people happy, always baking a pie for the neighbors, running errands for the elderly, and always making sure her son and husband had warm meals, fresh clothes, and her undivided attention. She loved singing show tunes, always pulling her husband, his father, and him up to dance with her; she loved music, she always had something playing on the radio. What he admired about her was her kindness; she was always so nice, no matter what, no matter the person, her kindness never faltered. 

  


He had lost that. Over the years the bitterness, the pain, the fear had won over him, squashed any kindness he had left. Kindness didn’t help him survive, it was weak, pathetic, girly. Boys are tough, unbendable, strong-willed. He became that, he was arrogant and brash, unapologetic, he didn’t let emotions rule over him. He didn’t take pity on anybody, it’s not like anyone would give it to him. Instead, he made sure not to get to close to anyone, it hurt less that way.Besides, boys aren’t meant to have best friends, so what was the point? 

  


He only ever had one: Mary, his mother. Oh God, his mother. 

He opened his eyes to harsh lights, closing them quickly. He tried to speak up, to curse at the lights but his voice came out all garbled. What happened? He tried to open his eyes again, spotting something black. It was hair, brown-reddish hair. He closed his eyes again, the dull throbbing of his head lulling him back under. Max, his sister, she had red hair. 

  


He hated her. She got everything, friends, family, love, she had all that. It was so unfair, why couldn’t he? No, perfect little Maxine got it instead; she was her father’s adoration, all his smiles were reserved for her, with some exception for Susan, Max’s mother.

  


She was afraid of him, he knew it, sometimes he loved it. She stayed out of his hair, afraid of his horrible temper when they were alone. He would scream, throw things, break things. She was never physically harmed of course, but the rest… 

He couldn’t help himself. Sometimes he really tried, but seeing her running towards her friends, receiving a warm hug from her mother and a proud praise from his father, it always rubbed him the wrong way. 

  


So he yelled, whenever she was late, whenever her smile was too bright or her humming too loud. He always walked a tad too fast, making her run behind him. Sometimes he wondered why he was like that, whenever he glanced at her teary face after breaking a toy of hers, her big blue eyes opened wide with tears and fear. She was so little and he was so big, she was so fragile and he was so strong. 

  


He hated it, he hated himself and he hated life. He loved her though, his little step-sister, which made him hate himself all the more. Everything that he hated about his life, everything rotten and evil about his life, he unloaded on her. Everything that made him afraid, he did to her.

  


There was a noise, no, a voice. It was calling out to him, but he felt like he was underwater, barely able to hear. The voice was shaking, it sounded nervous, hopeful but nervous. Like Susan’s, his stepmother. Always nervous yet hopeful whenever she spoke to him. 

  


It sickened him. He had hated her from the start, she felt like a cheap replacement of his own mother. Her smile was never as bright, her kindness was never as effortless and her music was dull mere background noise. Later on, he discovered that she was nothing but a coward. When the loud noises would start she would jump, look afraid, horrified even, but she never did anything. She just stood there. 

  


She loved her daughter, with all her heart. It made his own heart ache. She always bought her the prettiest clothes, the newest toys, the best books. She cooked her favorite meals, watched her favorite shows with her and gave her the warmest hugs. He knew that she would do anything to protect little Maxine. It was unfair, it was so unfair because no one would do that for him. Not anymore, why would they after all? 

  


She always tried to start up a polite conversation, asked about the weather, school, friends. He sneered at all of it. It was all make-believe, she did it to cover her guilt. He could see it in her eyes, blue like Maxine's’ but instead of fear or happiness, she wore guilt. She deserved it, she deserved his harsh words, his silence and his sneers over her ‘pocket money.’ She deserved the guilt. 

  


As long as her daughter remained oblivious and untouched, she would do nothing. Too afraid to speak up, too comfortable to move from her position. She jumped and she looked horrified, her hand flew up to cover her mouth, hiding her gasps. Her eyes closed to ignore the events unfolding around her and she did nothing, she stayed still and let it happen. She was a coward just like he was.

  


He opened his eyes again and he found another pair peering back. Deep brown eyes were staring straight at him. He reeled back, head throbbing at the movement. The warm hands grabbed him again, by the shoulders this time, trying to hold him still. Brown eyes, just like his father. Oh God, his father. 

  


He didn’t know how it happened. After his mother passed away so did his father’s smiles, they stopped coming. Harsh words came instead, and it had started simple, they were only words. 

“Sit up straight, fucking lazy.” 

The way he moved, the way he sat, the way he walked or ran, it was never good, never manly enough. 

“Quit singing, that’s for fags!” 

The things he liked, the things he loved, they were a disgrace, just like him. 

  


His friends couldn’t come over anymore, and what were they doing anyways? Sitting around the house, for what? “Alone in a house like a bunch of queers? Under my fucking roof? I didn’t raise a fucking faggot!” He remembered staring at his own ceiling, his cheeks growing unbearably hot, tears gathering at his eyes. “Are you crying like a little girl?” The wind was knocked out of him after that, repeatedly. 

  


For years it happened, behind closed doors, where people wouldn’t see. Susan knew, Susan saw, and in the back of his mind, he knew that she stood no chance against his father, but why did no one fight for him? His mother would have. Oh God, his mother. She would have fought, she wouldn’t have cared, not that his father was stronger or taller, not that he wasn’t manly enough at times, not that he was a fag. Before, his father would carry him on his back, ruffle his hair, praise his work. His brown eyes turned hard in the face of death and so did his heart. His father was manly just like he had to be, so his heart turned hard as well. 

  


His vision was blurry, doubling everything and slowly focusing on the eyes before him. They were kind, caring, scared. Not of him but _for_ him, and that was new, different, scary. It was a new kind of terror, not one that had his hands shaking and stomach knotting up. No, this one had his chest tighten, his heartbeat racing. The eyes were asking too much of him, they were searching for him everywhere, looking for something, anything. A sign that he was unwell or a sign that he was well. 

  


It was Steve, those kind eyes were Steve. They never stopped being kind, not when he pushed him into a locker, not when he shoved him to the ground, not even when he made fun of his persona. It infuriated him, making him try harder to break that kindness, the kind he didn’t have. He stole his friends, went after his girl, took his spot on the basketball team. Shoved him into lockers, kicked his books across the hallway, sneered after him. Nothing worked, the kind eyes were always there the next day. 

  


They had fought one time. After the fifth time that he had pushed Steve down in practice, the other boy finally stood up and pushed him back. He loved it, finally breaking him, reducing him to his level, to his nastiness. He egged Steve on, to punch him, shove him, laughing like a maniac when he did and giving it back twice as hard. Because he could, he was stronger, he was powerful. 

  


But the kind eyes were back the next day and he had apologized. Fucking _apologized_. He felt rotten, he _was_ rotten. He hated Steve, _perfect_ Steve. Always so kind, so nice and so considerate; it was a fucking _joke_. He told him so, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pinning him against the wall in the empty locker room. He had intended on yelling at him, ruining his perfect face with his fist, he had glared at him and those kind eyes stared back, void of any fear. It was too much kindness, making his heart ache and his head woozy. 

  


Next thing he knew soft lips were against his. He never figured out who had initiated it but he never wanted it to stop. It was forbidden and wrong, but oh so right. 

  


Hospital, he was in a hospital, the harsh lights were just ceiling lights. The voice was Steve, calling out his name. It was his hands as well, they were grabbing at his face trying to get him to wake up. The pain in his head wasn’t receding, the drugs making his body heavy, slow but not painless, not anymore. 

  


He couldn’t remember what happened but he could feel it. His ribs ached, his head screamed and his chest throbbed. His shoulder felt all wrong, as if it had been popped out and then back in, which it probably had. He could feel thick gauze around his shoulder and chest, going all the way down to his hips, wrapping him up like a present. Steve’s eyes were moist, he had cried, cried like a little girl. He would have made fun, but his throat was too dry, too dry and too tight. 

  


He tried to reach up to bat Steve’s hand away, hands that still hadn’t left his face, but he couldn’t reach that high. Pain tore through him like an old friend, a groan slipping past his lips, startling Steve. He huffed out a small laugh, his ever-present mocking smirk adorning his face once more. It was a joke, all of it. He was always hurting, always sporting a bruise, this was nothing new, nothing different. Just the same old routine. Why bother with the hospital? His father wouldn’t appreciate it, they were already tight on money. Hospitals are expensive and now he’s in one because he couldn’t take it like a man. He is weak, pathetic, useless; here he was lying down like a sissy. He tried to sit up but the pain overtook him, sending him crashing back down, Steve’s panicked shout following after him, yelling at him to stay down, not move, to please for the love of God stay still. 

  


Throughout all his bullying of Steve, he had never seen fear in his eyes. Not when he broke his nose, not when he cornered him, not when he towered over him and threatened him. But now there is. 

  


Stab wounds, in his chest, one of them punctured his lungs. That’s why it hurt to breathe, that’s what Steve explained. He had found him, choking in his own blood, out of breath outside his house. Susan and Maxine were with the police giving their statement, and his father was nowhere to be found. He had done this to him, no one knew why, but he knew. He had seen him, him and Steve, holding hands and kissing down by the quarry, away from prying eyes, or so he had thought. 

  


“What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you make such disgusting choices?” A fist to the temple followed.

“You wanna be fucked like a fucking girl?” A knee to the stomach and a fist to the nose drove his point home. He was on the ground, petrified, lying there, taking it. There was a moment of silence, of calm before the storm. 

“I should just kill you both, freaks of nature!” His breath was knocked out of him by a kick to the stomach. There was a blinding pain to his chest followed by another and another until he could no longer get his breath back. 

“Get out of my house, fag.” 

It was deadly calm. His muscles screamed as he stood up, and he felt something rise up his throat, a metallic taste overpowering his mouth, but he listened. Rushed past his father and out of the house, past Susan’s car, which screeched to a halt and out into the road where he spotted Steve. His face was pale, eyes wide and filled with terror, but he didn’t get to ask what was wrong, as his world tilted and turned black before he could even open his mouth. 

  


It did occur to him that he might have been dying, but he didn’t mind. He would gladly take all the pain, suffering and death, he deserved it. He was disgusting, weak, a bully. He tormented his little step-sister because she could be happy and loved. He harassed Steve because his mother sent him a packed lunch and he always had it in him to be kind. He might die out in the cold but that was okay; better him than Steve, because Steve had kind eyes and warm hands while he just had cruel sneers and mocking laughs. 

  


He didn’t die. Instead, he woke up to Steve’s kind eyes and his tears falling down on his face followed by sob-laced apologies. A tender kiss was pressed to his forehead and then his cheek, warm hands grabbing his cold ones with a sense of desperation. He didn’t deserve any of this. 

  


He was always so angry, his temper always flying off the handle. He had smashed Steve’s windshield once, torn apart Maxine's favorite book. He had punched his so-called friend in the nose, breaking it, shoved smaller kids out of his way in the school’s hallway. Charmed so many girls into sleeping with him only to kick them out the next day with a cruel sneer. No matter how much he tried, he could never smile as bright as his mother, his eyes never seemed to hold as much kindness as Steve’s do and his humming never seemed as carefree and happy as Max. 

  


He never understood why Max always wanted to be around him and so he had squashed those desires with cruel jabs, but with Steve, he never managed, no matter how hard he pushed, the kindness never faltered. Just like his mother, and while his smile was not as bright as hers, his hands were just as warm and his eyes were just as a kind. It was a different sort of love, of course, but it was just as big. He could feel it and it made him uncomfortable, afraid. Afraid that he wasn’t going to be enough for Steve, that he wouldn’t be able to show him how much he loved him back. 

  


Being a fag wasn’t easy, they weren’t accepted. Sure, it had been legalized a couple of years back, but they were still a plague. His father hated them with a passion, hated _him_ with a passion. Maybe it wasn’t worth it, maybe if he went away Steve would find a nice girl with matching kindness to marry, to live a happy and safe life with. Steve had dated plenty of girls before him, he had been Steve’s first guy. He was rotten to the core and Steve deserved better, nicer, kinder. 

  


He hadn’t felt so much love in such a long time, and he was no longer used to giving it either. He was afraid that, at some point, Steve would grow tired of him and his emotional blockage, but right now…right now his beating heart seemed to be more than enough for Steve. He managed to aim a weak smile in the teen’s direction before closing his eyes again. He focused on the warm hand resting in his, the other playing gently with his hair and on the happy sob-filled breaths next to him. He felt loved again and he wasn’t willing to give that up. It might be selfish, but, after all, that was just like him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
